Quidditch For the Ages: The Greatest Match of All
by SnitchGrabber
Summary: Albus vs. Scorpius. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. Do you really need to hear more? There is much more than House Cup points at stake in this riveting match of Quidditch.
1. Chapter 1

Quidditch For the Ages: The Greatest Match of All Time

Part 1

It was brutally cold. The pitch had taken on the color of an eerie, translucent green, caused by the thin layer of ice that had frozen on top of the neatly trimmed grass. The wind was howling louder than a werewolf at full moon, accompanied by sheets of rain made vicious and stinging by the frigid temperature. Yet, as expected, hundreds upon hundreds of spectators had come trundling down the steps of the Great Hall en route to the match, skin protected by a thick layering of blessedly warm clothing, save for a handful of pearly translucent beings who, by way of being dead, did not fear nor feel the cold. If you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you followed an unspoken rule, one that held for most of wizardkind: All other things be damned, Quidditch was Quidditch and could not be missed. Yet the game set to be played out on the raw February day was perhaps more than a "regular" Quidditch match. It was war, a rivalry fueled by mutual loathing and centuries of contention, a conflict that had seen blood spilled and bones broken, either side vying with all its might to not only defeat the opposition but to dominate it, to humiliate it in front of all eyes, to see the enemy kneel and be humbled. This was never going to be an ordinary game. This was Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.

Below the buzzing crowd, the players of both houses were busy in their dressing rooms. Albus Severus Potter, captain and seeker of the Gryffindor Lions, was lost in deep concentration as he slipped on his scarlet and gold garb, fastened his wrist protectors, and furtively slipped his wand inside his pocket. After all, he mused, this was Slytherin. You never knew what to expect from that bunch of villains. He straightened his circular-framed glasses and looked himself over. Satisfied, he picked up his broomstick, the vaunted Lightning Bolt 3000, and brought it to his vivid green eyes. Now in his seventh year, Albus had ridden this faithful broom his entire life. It was a mark of its greatness that the market had produced no finer flying instrument since its creation. It and its master had tamed dozens of elusive Golden Snitches, yet the broomstick still looked as it had during Albus's very first match, a testament to both its consummate craftsmanship as well as Albus's gentle care. After all this time, he considered it more of a friend than a broom. He inspected it from emblazoned handle to gleaming twigs as he had done the night before, making sure nothing was out of place. When it was deemed ready, he slung it over his shoulder and turned to face his team. One by one he looked at them all, each filling him with a deep sense of pride. First was Hugo. Looking like a clone of his father (who was said to have been quite good in his day), Hugo was tall and gangly, and had not yet fully grown in to his stretched form. Yet he had a knack for reading a Chaser's mind and a penchant for pressure-packed saves. Now in his fifth year, Hugo had become an indispensable part of the team. The Gryffindor beaters, Jamie Wadham and Tom Leventhorp, stood laughing together in a corner of the dressing room. Both saluted Albus in mock earnestness upon meeting his glance. They were inseparable, and the importance of that was not lost on Albus. In fact, aside from their clear skill with a club, their rapport was the reason they had made the team. Albus knew how important it was for beaters to know one another, for only then could they truly play together. Jamie and Tom had flown together so long that each knew exactly where the other would be at any given time, maximizing their positive effect. Yet the two chums could not have been more different, much to the amusement of the Gryffindor squad. Tom was a boisterous prankster, and never missed the chance to rib a teammate. Jamie, however, was quiet and reserved. The only things that seemed to force him out of his shell were Tom's antics. As for looks, while Jamie could have been half-giant and towered over most people, Tom was the second shortest member of the team. Tom had a clean, boyish face, which stood quite apart from Jamie's imposing and grizzled countenance. The only thing the two boys had in common were their arms, which had been compared to the limbs of a Whomping Willow. Each could send a Bludger whizzing at an opponent at speeds that had competitors looking over their shoulders in fear. Albus turned his gaze to his Chasers. There was Jaskyll Moore, a tanned and tough sixth year whose strength was mainly in his defense; Michael Isley, in Jaskyll's year and just as stout; and then there was Lily. For a moment, he locked eyes with his little sister, giving her a quick wink and a smile, both of which were promptly returned. A bubble of confidence swelled in his chest, and for good reason. His sister was the only Chaser of Gryffindor that could keep up with Ulric Fogg. Although Ulric had the advantage in strength, Lily matched him in speed and guile. With her flaming red hair and deep brown eyes, she drew constant comparisons to her mother, and not just because of her looks. It was well known that Ginny Potter had been a talented Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, and many assumed, after seeing Lily dazzle in the sky, that she would follow her mother's footsteps. Her prodigious skill enhanced the already above-average play of Jaskyll and Isley, and together they played as a seamless unit. Albus cleared his throat and waited until he had everyone's attention.

"This isn't going to be a long speech-"

"Thank heaven for that, Albus, because you were never good at them," interrupted a loud voice from the back. The dressing room burst out in laughter as Albus looked over at his Keeper. "You just concentrate on getting your hands on the Quaffle Hugo," he said. "I swear, sometimes I think we have Nearly Headless Nick guarding the goalposts." Hugo's smile widened at the teasing, and the team cracked up again. Albus allowed a few moments of laughter before continuing, his face serious.

"All jokes aside, we know what this game means. We've got the best ruddy team Gryffindor has seen for at least 30 years, maybe ever." His team cheered.

"But that's Slytherin out there we're facing. Besides the fact that they have an excellent team-" a chorus of boos drowned him out, which he quickly silenced with a wave of his hand. "It's no good saying they aren't up to scratch. Everyone they have can fly, and fly well. And with the weather the way it is, one bad mistake could cost us the game."

He saw a flicker of doubt appear on his teammates' faces. He nodded his head confidently and continued, his voice loud and pierced with emotion. "But we, and the whole damn school, know that as good as they are, we could out-fly them on a BUNCH OF SHOOTING STARS WITH BLINDFOLDS ON!" His team roared, each nodding and stamping vigorously at his words. "They are going to use every dirty trick in the book to stop us. Inferior talent often attempts to balance the odds by doing so. But we ARE PREPARED. We're the best team in this match, and if we fly like we're capable of, those snakes won't stand a fool's chance." Albus took a step closer to his team, who stood up, sensing the moment. Albus smiled and stuck out his arm. Taking the cue, each member placed their hands on top of his, seven people enjoined as one. Albus took one last look at his mates, all looking at him with determined anticipation. "Now let's go out there and show them what Gryffindors are made of!"

Acros the stadium in the other dressing room, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was sneering. To him the day was no more about victory then it was about crushing Potter. Smug, too-big-for-his-britches Potter, the Golden Boy Who Could Do No Wrong, and the rest of his Gryffindor cronies. He clenched his fist, imagining for a second the overwhelming rapture of capturing the snitch in the face of those Gryffindor bastards, of soaring through the crowd, arm raised and index finger extended, as his house and supporters bellowed frenzied cheers and chanted his name. He licked his lips, imagining lowly Potter sinking to the ground in utter defeat. He closed his eyes for a second to savor the delicious image. Looking down, he cast a scornful gaze at his broomstick, a Lightning Bolt 3000, leaning silently against his locker. Scorpius picked it up with distaste. He despised it simply because Albus Potter had the same model. He was brought up to not only have the best of everything, but to be the best as well. Yet Perfect Potter on his equal broom somehow managed to always find a way to best him. Scorpius was an excellent student; it was not through schoolwork that he was beaten. It was always on the pitch. But to Scorpius, nothing could hurt more than losing at Quidditch. It was the ultimate showcase of skill: speed, agility, power and strategy rolled into one mouthwatering athletic event, a sensory delight for the spectator as well as the player, where decisions were made in a fraction of a heartbeat and the game could change just as quickly. Potter was almost famous for his victories, and it killed Scorpius; it gave him physical torment that he felt deep in his chest, an invisible knife that shredded his heart ever more with each frustrating foil. He shook his head, shaking off his depressing reverie. He looked down and saw that his knuckles were white against his broomstick, and he loosened his grip as he turned around to survey his team. There was Salacus and Sebastian Bancombe, his twin hulks with arms as thick as their clubs. They could hit a Bludger harder than a nesting Horntail, and with their long dark hair and brooding expressions, they could be mistaken for the large reptiles as well. His eyes roved to his Keeper, Piers Dunham. If Slytherin had a weak spot, it was Dunham. Long and strong as a Keeper should be, Dunham could just as comfortably make an incredible play as he could bungle an elementary stop. Scorpius was sure that one day soon Dunham would be a great Keeper- he just required more training. Only in his third year, Dunham was easily the youngest member of the squad, and it was clear he was nervous. His hands were shaking as they clasped his broomstick, causing his Nimbus 2004 to appear as though it were vibrating. Piers spotted Scorpius eyeing him and quickly looked away. Scorpius next turned to his Chasers: William Warde, Julian Cobham and Ulric Fogg. All three were excellent flyers and tacticians, and all were speedy and lightweight like Scorpius himself. Will and Julian were brown-haired, but after that the similarites ended. Will's nose was long and jutted out at an odd angle, a souvenir from one too many fists. His hair was shaved down to his skull, and his blue eyes were hollowed deep within his head. The effect was quite alarming, and Scorpius had been delighted to find that he was as efficient a Chaser as his visage was a nightmare. Julian, on the other hand, had wavy, silken locks, a dead center nose and hazel eyes that could pierce a girl's heart. He was muscular despite his medium build and could charm a witch as well as he could take the lead in the Hawkshead Formation. And then there was Ulric. Ulric, the gem of the lot; Ulric, who had put through more goals than the entire Ravenclaw side the last year; Ulric, who seemed to have a preternatural gift for scoring. It was as if he could sense a play before it unfolded, and his ability to avoid Bludgers was something bordering on myth. The burden of beating Hugo Weasley would fall mainly on his shoulders, and as he regarded him, Scorpius felt assured that Fogg was up to the task. Ulric rarely spoke, and even more rarely was he spoken to. He emitted a distinct aura, one that many labeled as nothing less than dangerous. His eyes were so dark it appeared as though his pupils melted into his irises, and his stare was said to make one feel as if he were naked. Yet where others might see threat, Scorpius saw majesty. He saw Fogg as a symbol of the historic greatness of Slytherin House, a being of a bygone era unfortunate to be born into the wrong time. Ulric was his best friend, the only student at Hogwarts Scorpius felt at ease confiding in. He gave Ulric a confident smirk. Fogg returned the greeting with a slight inclination of his head, and Scorpius grinned. This was his team, one handpicked with the utmost judiciousness and created with the sole purpose of defeating the reigning champions of the Quidditch Cup. They could not fail. They _would_ not fail.

"Brothers," he began, outstretching his arms to them all. "Today we exact revenge." The dressing room was silent save for the hoarse growls of the Bancombes. "Today we begin to take back what will be ours." The Slytherins whooped. Scorpius' eyes gleamed bright with determination, and his voice rose. "Today we teach that unbearable bunch of blood-traitors what a PROPER Quidditch team, from a PROPER House, can do." His thoughts settled on Potter as his men whooped again, and a scowl crossed his features. His eyes narrowed as he continued. "Today we prove, by any means and to everyone, that it is Slytherin who will be champions, that is Slytherin, not Gryffindor, that reigns supreme, that it is WE—WHO—ARE—BEST!" As he shouted the last word, his team stood together and whooped one last time. Then he turned his back and led them purposefully onto the pitch.

Up in the announcer's booth, Gil Jordan was teetering on the edge of his seat, involved in a heated discussion with his co-announcer, Niles Bacon, about the upcoming match. "Look, those Potters are the best fliers Hogwarts has seen in anyone's living memory. I doubt even McGonagall could recall a better Gryffindor squad." Niles, a Ravenclaw, quickly opposed this opinion. "You're not giving Malfoy his due," he said carefully, enjoying the discomfort of his friend. Gil bled scarlet and gold, and many detentions had been meted out due to his occasionally non-partisan announcing. "Malfoy has put together more than a decent team this year; they're fantastic," Niles insisted, pointing a finger into his friend's chest. "And you know it." Gil nodded exasperatedly. "I doubt two teams of this caliber have ever faced each other before in Hogwarts history," he conceded. "I never thought I'd see the day that Malfoy would find two slugs as big as the Bancombes who actually knew how to ride a broom." Niles chuckled. "But let's not leave out Fogg in the middle with his two companions. Those three don't need a levitation charm to soar." Gil shook his head. "Fogg could score ten goals with Longbottom and Slughorn as his mates," he joked. Or at least Niles thought he was kidding. "Potter better hope his sister plays up to scratch today," he said. "She's the only one who could match Ulric talent for talent." He looked to his friend, and noticed that Gil was staring out onto the pitch. In a moment, it became apparent as to why. Both teams had appeared from their dressing rooms, walking toward the center of the pitch where Madam Fugota, the flying instructor, stood waiting with her whistle. Gil stood up. Taking out his wand, he tapped it to his throat and muttered, _"Sonorus_!" before winking at Niles, who did the same.

"Ladies and gentleman, ghosts and elves, honored teachers and respected students-"

He was cut off by a raspy voice behind him. "Enough with the pleasantries, Jordan." Gil turned to see Professor McGonagall shuffle into her usual seat behind him. Although long since retired, Minerva McGonagall could never quite break from Hogwarts. She maintained the connection by frequenting Quidditch matches, and had never missed Gryffindor play. "I think everyone is excited enough as it is without your embellishment." Gil nodded and turned back to the crowd. "Welcome everyone to the first game of the 2024 Quidditch Cup!" The stands were vibrating with excitement. "Today we are honored to witness an historic match! A clash of titans! A meeting of masters! A war of-"

"Jordan!"

"Sorry Professor. Ladies and gentleman, GRYFFINDOR vs. SLYTHERIN!" The crowd erupted into unbridled tumult.

From behind him, Niles heard Professor McGonagall's scratchy laugh.

"Professor?" he inquired.

"You're too young, Bacon," she said, still smiling. "I've seen more Quidditch matches than you can shake a kneazle at. But I've never seen the crowd this energized." Niles was hit with a profound sense of wonderment. Yet as he looked out at the two teams standing opposite one another in the winter chill, their expressions as frosty as the ice beneath them, he felt a seeping cold spread down his spine. Whatever McGonagall had seen in her day, he had to agree with her. These two teams had come to play. He heard the former Headmistress give one more sharp chuckle.

"Merlin's beard boys, if they disbanded the houses, the Hogwarts team could play for England."

The thundering of the crowd always gave Albus goose bumps. From his first game until this one he knew there was nothing quite like hearing the fevered clamoring of the crowd, the sound of hundreds of fans frothing at the mouth in expectancy of the coming action. Walking onto the pitch, the ground cracking at his feet, Albus felt the familiar swooping sensation in his stomach that only pregame nerves could bring. He looked to his right and found Hugo, whose face had blanched. Hugo always became a wreck on game days. That morning Albus had literally had to force two pieces of buttered toast down his Keeper's throat. Now, however, the kid needed confidence, not food. As they approached midfield, Albus walked over to him and put his arm around Hugo's shoulder. Hugo looked up at Albus, the fear plain in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly cut off by his Captain. "I don't want to hear anything from you, Weasley," he said, his tone stern. "We both know it would probably be something stupid anyway." He smiled, and saw a twitch begin at the corners of his cousin's mouth. "You know what to do. You've done it a hundred times before. You guard those goalposts like I know you can, and Fogg and that pretty boy Cobham won't stand a chance. You're a king compared to those dimwits." Hugo looked up at Albus, fear still plain on his face yet with something new mixed in, something Albus quickly labeled as fierce pride. "And when we win, the first butterbeer's on me." He patted Hugo's shoulder and walked to the center of the pitch, leaving his cousin, although still pale, with a grin.

More to come...feel free to review and let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

Scorpius stared at Albus as he took his place opposite the Gryffindor seeker at the center of the pitch. His heart was hammering against his chest, the familiar pre-match anxiety building to this ultimate crescendo: his forced handshake with his hated rival. The noise of the crowd was dimmed in his ears as he watched Albus slowly raise his gaze to him, his green eyes radiating intensity. Scorpius matched emotion with emotion, forcing himself to not only meet the Gryffindor's glare but to overcome it. The world stopped, and for a moment it was just the two of them in a battle of wills. Madam Fugota's voice seemed to reach him from a mile away, and his concentration broke.

"Captains, shake hands," she said, nodding to each of them.

Albus extended his right arm, slowly and carefully, never taking his eyes off his foe. Scorpius did the same, and as soon as their hands met, both squeezed as hard as their power allowed. Neither seemed to want to let go (or at least to be the first to), and the union continued to last, five seconds, ten, until Madam Fugota cleared her throat. "That's enough boys," she said, looking to each one with a stern eye. The Captains quickly unclenched their grasps. Their hands were red.

There is a moment before any Quidditch match where time seems suspended. It is a single, fleeting instant, occurring right before the whistle is blown to signal the beginning of the game. In that second everything seems to freeze: the fans are quiet, their cheers silent in their gaping mouths, eyes wide in anticipatory glee; the players stand with their bodies tensed and coiled, knees bent, waiting to explode upon takeoff; even nature seems to be holding its breath in respect for the game. The wind ceases to howl, and the trees gain control over their swaying limbs, stilling the rustling leaves. It is the calm before the storm. And then the whistle blows, and everything erupts.

Fourteen blurs burst into the air at breakneck speed as the game began. Gil Jordan, forever on the edge of his seat, frantically began his broadcast.

"AND THEY'RE OFF!" he yelled, his arms raised in the air. "It's Slytherin in possession, Ulric Fogg with the Quaffle, flanked by Cobham and Warde. Fogg streaking up the field, barrel rolls through a Bludger, swerves past a darting Isley…"

Albus couldn't help himself; he turned to watch the action going on twenty feet below him. Ulric Fogg was an unfocused rocket in the air; he made turns so quickly that Wadham and Leventhorp could only swing blindly at him and hope their shots connected.

Albus flew to within shouting range of Jamie. "Don't go for Fogg!" he yelled. "Take out the others beside him!" Albus waited until he saw Jamie nod in acknowledgment before zooming off in his search for the Golden Snitch.

Ulric felt fast. He was most at home in the air, and flying came as easily to him as anything ever had. He just had a feeling for it; his body simply reacted to the events occurring around it. And now he found himself leading the Hawkshead Formation, with two chasers and two beaters hot on his trail. His head was constantly roving from side to side, gazing endlessly for a hint of red. Lily. Ulric respected her ability. Unlike Scorpius, Ulric always maintained a level head. Emotion only hindered rational decisions, and he would be a fool to insist like his Captain that the Gryffindor squad was comprised of seven talking flobberworms. Yet as good as he knew they were, he also knew he could beat them. Fogg was not overly humble; he knew just how exceptional he was. He calmly dove under Jaskyll Moore, who had come to head him off and was not expecting the move. Fogg was pleased to see his teammates had quickly followed him and remained by his side. Moore was ten feet above him, waiting for Ulric to make a move upward.

The goalposts were a hundred feet away when he saw it: a flash of red, coming up fast on his right. Lily was closing in from twenty feet away. Peripheral movement to his left signaled the arrival of Michael Isley. They were sandwiched, and Moore was still soaring overhead. It was time to move.

William and Julian watched as Ulric raised his left hand in the air and extended two fingers. As one, they shifted; William gliding upwards and Julian dipping until they were directly above and below the speeding Fogg and had formed a Stack, one on top of the other, protecting the Quaffle.

Fifty feet from the goalposts, the Gryffindors closed in: Lily from the right, Isley from the left, and Moore from above. The attack was supplemented by a single jet black Bludger pelted at the Slytherin Chasers courtesy of Jamie Wadham. Warde was blasted in the back, a grunt of pain escaping his lips as he went tumbling in the air, clearing the way for Moore to drop down onto the now unprotected Fogg. Lily and Isley simultaneously flanked Cobham, guarding him so closely their knees were almost knocking against those of the Slytherin Chaser. Cobham angled his broomstick downwards to escape the pressure, and as he did so, Lily and Isley moved up to complete their triangle around Ulric.

In the blink of an eye, he was gone.

Fogg had come to a complete stop in a fraction of an instant, and had dropped behind the Gryffindor Chasers who had yet to realize where he was in the harassing rain. Lily swung her broom around in time to see a speeding Bludger heading directly for the back of the Slytherin Chaser's head. She waited for the dull thud, but it never came. At the last moment, Ulric flattened himself against his broom and the Bludger zinged past him. Lily's eyes widened. Then Fogg took off like a shot.

Hugo watched the play unfold with bated breath, his body tight with tingly nerves. He saw Ulric maneuver past the Gryffindor Chasers into the open field. Lily and Tom were on his tail, but Michael and Jaskyll were occupied with Cobham and Warde and Ulric seemed impossibly swift. His insides clenched as the realization that this would be his first test of the game washed over him. He hovered around the middle goalpost, fifty feet in the air, as Ulric Fogg pelted towards him. Hugo tried to gauge which direction Ulric was headed, but it was no use; Fogg was blazing directly towards him.

Ulric watched Weasley's pale face as he streaked up the pitch. He knew the Keeper was trying to gain a read on him. He also knew that he would be unable to, at least not until it was too late. He began his move twenty feet from the center post. Catching Hugo off-guard, Fogg feinted to his left, then knifed through the air to his right with pinpoint precision, losing no speed in the turn. It was enough to throw the deceived Gryffindor Keeper off balance. Hugo was playing catch-up as he desperately tried to reach the right goalpost. Yet even as he covered ground he knew it was too late. Ulric's one move had achieved its purpose.

Ten feet from the goal, Ulric drew his arm back, raising the Quaffle high. Locked onto his target, he lashed it forward, the Quaffle flying ahead as if tossed from a slingshot. As he released it, Fogg knew his aim was true.

In the announcer's booth, Gil Jordan swore loudly, causing Professor McGonagall to smack him on the back with her cane as Niles stood to cover for his friend. "SLYTHERIN SCORES!" he shouted to the crowd, as one-quarter of the stands stood, the fans bellowing their approval at their star Chaser. "Fogg beats Weasley magnificently, making it 10-0 to Slytherin as Potter takes the Quaffle…"

Above the announcers, Albus grimaced. It was only one goal, yet he hoped it was not a sign as to how the game would progress. Ulric was great, but he had drilled his team constantly on how to stop him. Flank from both sides and above. Collapse as one, with the Beaters concentrating on Cobham and Warde. Yet Fogg had circumvented the defense. He only hoped his Chasers would be better prepared next t—

His thoughts were interrupted as he spotted the Snitch hovering fifty feet overhead, directly atop midfield. Its silver wings beat incessantly, beckoning Albus towards it. Across the stadium, Albus locked eyes with Scorpius. Then he pushed his broom upwards and took off.

Gil Jordan had recovered in time to see Albus and Scorpius tearing up the sky. "AND THE SEEKERS HAVE SPOTTED SOMETHING!" he yelled, his voice filled with manic anxiety mixed with excitement, his vision never straying from the aerial race. He sputtered some words, as he was leaning so far out of the box to get a better vantage point that his head quickly became drenched in the downpour. "IT'S POTTER AND MALFOY SPRINTING UP THE SKY!" Gil's hands clawed at his face as he stood transfixed on the scarlet and green blurs.

Albus's teeth were clenched as he bolted closer to the Snitch, his heart threatening to burst from his robes. He flattened himself against the broom handle, urging it forward. He knew the Snitch could disappear any moment, and he had to get there before it did. And definitely before Malfoy.

Across from Albus, Scorpius was keeping pace. His squinting eyes were simultaneously tracking the tiny golden prize and the enemy who would snatch it from him. The biting wind lashed at his clothing, causing his robes to billow out, and the hard rain whipped his face. Yet he would not slow down, would not let the weather inhibit his performance. Fifty feet from the Snitch, he glanced across the field to Potter, too intent on winning the game to notice Scorpius looking at him. The Gryffindor captain was a snake against his broom, perfectly horizontal, hurtling through the sky with unfaltering focus. Worry flitted across Scorpius' features for a fraction of an instant before being replaced by hardened loathing.

In their second year at Hogwarts, both Scorpius Malfoy and Albus Potter had made their House Quidditch teams. Both were considered exceedingly good, and many proclaimed their rivalry would be quite a spectacle over the coming years. Gryffindor played Slytherin for the Quidditch Cup that season, and were it not for the astonishing skill of Ulric Fogg, the prodigy who had made the team in his first year, Slytherin would have lost by much more than 300-90. Albus caught the Snitch before Scorpius had even seen it. The Potter brothers were victorious, and Scorpius had his first taste of defeat. It was not something he would get used to.

After that match, Scorpius had trained hard. He never wanted to feel the way he did after that loss again, never wanted to have to slink off the pitch while the Gryffindors poured onto the field, rolling around in ecstatic celebration. And so he worked and worked and he became better and he entered his third year, confident and ready for victory. He had Ulric Fogg by his side, and he felt that together they would not lose, even against those damned Potters. Their first game, against Ravenclaw, had been nothing short of destruction. Ulric scored nine goals by himself before Scorpius captured the Snitch. They won 260-30. They entered their match versus Gryffindor with the utmost self-confidence. The game was closer, but not by much. James Potter matched Ulric that day while Albus outshone Scorpius with a magnificent one-handed grab, made while flying backwards.

Malfoy had felt numb as he sat in the showers after, alone and dejected. He had practiced. He had prepared. And he had nothing to show for it.

Prior to his fourth year Scorpius pored over Seeker tactics and read every Quidditch book he could get his hands on. He knew he had to be missing something. He thought that through hard work he could gain an edge over Albus Potter and the Gryffindors. He broke bones and shed blood mastering the Wronski Feint. His dreams were filled with images of Bludgers and Snitches and Brooms and blurs. At only 14 years old, he was able to fly better than only a handful of students in the entire school.

Unfortunately for Scorpius, Albus Potter was one of those students. Although Slytherin once again steamrolled past Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, they could not overcome Gryffindor. With James and Albus Potter and Gryffindor's newest superstar, Lily, leading the way, Gryffindor won the Cup again. In a breathtaking finish, Scorpius and Albus spotted the Snitch and raced side by side toward the golden ball. The Snitch was ten feet away when Albus suddenly dropped rapidly. Scorpius was too intent on victory to care and was blindsided when the Bludger connected, separating his shoulder and sending un-ignorable pain shooting throughout his body. He plummeted off course and looked up just in time to see Albus reach out and close his hand over Scorpius' anguish.

After that game, the Malfoy-Potter debate ceased to be a question. Scorpius was forced to hear Potter's name muttered reverently throughout the opulent halls of Hogwarts while his own faded to second fiddle. He was a good seeker, yes; but as long as he was overwhelmed by Potter's shadow, he would never become great. The whole school seemed to treat the Potters like royalty: even the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws seemed to be in awe of them. And Scorpius remained a mere footnote, just one of the many that had been vanquished at the hands of the Magnificent Potters.

Even in his own House, Scorpius was begrudged respect. He could win as many meaningless games against Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw as he wanted. To Slytherin House, however, beating Gryffindor was the only thing that mattered, and Scorpius always failed in that holiest of missions. For the life of him he could not understand it. It was not in his nature to admit he was _anyone's_ inferior, but a rival? Unacceptable. And yet…he could not win. It was at this point that a new feeling emerged in Scorpius' consciousness, one both foreign and unwanted. Doubt crept into his thoughts, poisoning his psyche with notions of deficiency. For the first time, Scorpius believed he could lose. Defying all his hard work, Potter bested him at every turn with seemingly minimal effort. Sure, Potter practiced; sure, he tried; but he did not do what Scorpius did, and so did not deserve his popularity and his skill. The fact that he was a Gryffindor only made it worse. At home he would rant and rave about Potter, the favorite student of every teacher, the Quidditch hero of every student. His father seemed to agree with his assessment, but what could he do other than make sure Scorpius had the best equipment? Yet Albus Potter also had a Lightning Bolt 3000, and something more. He had something indefinable that held Scorpius back from triumph, and Scorpius resented it. At just under 15 years old, Scorpius Malfoy wanted to destroy Albus Potter.

If they had been merely rivals before their fifth year, it would be right to say they were enemies at the start of it. Scorpius walked with a constant chip on his shoulder, as he felt the persistent need to prove himself against Albus. Albus, for his part, responded in kind. Insults were hurled both ways, and duels in the hallways commenced between classes. Scorpius went to the hospital wing to have facial tentacles removed, while Albus joined him shortly to do the same to his antlers. The enmity, coupled with the tension of the coming O.W.L. examinations, served to fan the flames of a much-anticipated Quidditch season. Of course, Gryffindor would be the favorite; with the three Potters at the helm, they had not failed to win the Cup. It was to be the crowning year of James Potter, in his seventh and last year at Hogwarts. By all accounts, no team could match the Lions, yet the discord between Gryffindor and Slytherin (far and away the team of second-best quality) was at such a high that even the surest of minds was doubtful of an easy win for the Scarlet and Gold. Scuffles routinely broke out between the Houses, and teachers were hard-pressed to separate them. The situation escalated to the point that in the week before their match, the members of each House, who normally shared a number of classes together, were placed in different lessons. Gryffindor beat Hufflepuff 180-10, with Albus catching the Snitch less than ten minutes into the game. Slytherin, for their part, demolished a hapless Ravenclaw team 230-30, a game that culminated in a magical left-handed capture by Scorpius as he was hanging on his broom with only one arm and one leg. That left Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, unsurprisingly, to decide the Quidditch Cup.

No teacher remembered seeing Hogwarts buzz like it did the morning of that Final. The day dawned crystal clear and sunny, and both teams entered the Great Hall for breakfast to tumultuous applause mixed with a barrage of hisses (of course, it was the Slytherin team that heard most of these). James Potter, normally with an interminable smile on his face, was deadly poised; Albus was a mute who had to be force-fed by his older brother; And Scorpius refused to show nerves in front of his team, wolfing down a full meal while scowling across the Hall at Albus. Five minutes later he excused himself, citing a desire to check the pitch conditions. He made it to the bathroom just in time, vomiting up the contents of his hastily eaten breakfast.

The match, etched into history before it even began, was breathless from the start.

Ulric Fogg and James Potter, by wide consensus the two greatest seekers ever to set foot in Hogwarts, were perfect foils for each other. Neither seemed to need (nor in fact want) any teammates in their pursuit of stopping the other. At the same time, Albus and Scorpius were racing around the field, their eyes made slits by squinting effort to spot the tiny Snitch. While the teams traded goals, every so often the crowd would whoop in delight as one Seeker would takeoff in the seeming pursuit of a capture. Twice Scorpius made magnificent aerial maneuvers to hinder Albus, who had a bead on the golden ball. And then, finally, Scorpius saw the snitch first. It was beautiful, a shining, twittering star fifty feet straight ahead of him.

He pressed forward with every fiber of his being, and he knew he was going to catch it, Albus was ten feet to the right, he'd never make it in time—

And then he found himself spinning out of control. Albus had taken an angle not to capture the Snitch, but to bump Scorpius out of the way. Helpless, struggling to regain control of his broom, Scorpius could only watch as the Snitch shot down 60 feet, hovering right on top of the neatly trimmed pitch.

And then Albus _dove._

They would talk about that dive for months and months to come. How Albus, right after making a brilliant defensive move, didn't even hesitate before turning his broom handle perpendicular to the ground, fearless, rocketing towards the ground like a blazing scarlet meteorite. The crowd had only a split second to be awed before Albus pulled up at the last possible second, centimeters from crashing, face alight with exultation, right arm extended above his head, clutching the Golden Snitch. It was the best capture in anyone's memory, and the crowd roared in approval. Scorpius and his team descended, forgotten, while Albus was mobbed by teammates and supporters, victorious again.

There was no post-game speech by Scorpius, no mention of how well Slytherin had played all season. He left his team with only two words: never again. For four straight years Scorpius had been tortured, placed in a personal hell where losing to his archrival was the only outcome. Whatever it took, he decided, whatever he had to do, he would not lose again. He wouldn't be able to stand it.

And here they were, for a fifth straight year, flying against each other with the Quidditch Cup, and things more personal, on the line.

"It's Potter and Malfoy, closing in on something, 50 feet away!" yelled Gil Jordan, his hands balled up into fists.

The teeming stands were awed into silence as the two Seekers sped forward, each knowing they were on a direct collision course with the other, each knowing that the other would never stop.

The Snitch was hovering between them, fluttering madly amid the pouring rain, bobbing up and down as Scorpius and Albus closed in. Ten feet away, impact seemed certain.

Five feet away, the tiny ball decided to move, dropping thirty feet in an instant.

Scorpius cursed as he flew past the area that a moment before had held the Snitch. In one smooth motion he turned around and leaned forward, ready to dive.

And he saw Albus Potter in freefall, without a broom.

Albus saw it unfold in slow motion. As soon as the Snitch plummeted, he came to two conclusions in a fraction of an instant. First, he knew that at the speed he was travelling he would pass his mark if he stayed on his broom. Knowing this, he was left with only one choice. Without pausing, he spun around on his broom and _leapt_, with nothing but air and victory between him and the ground.

Albus shut out the world. Had he looked, he would have seen Scorpius' mouth hanging open. He would have heard the crowd rise to its feet as one, its volume tumultuous. He would have seen 13 players cease movement in the sky; he would have felt the freezing rain on his face and the wind at his back. But he was effected by none, so focused was he on his goal.

Like a shooting star he hurtled downwards, lips pressed together, eyes squinting in concentration, hands outstretched. He would have only one chance.

With the aim and skill of a true Seeker, Albus lashed an arm in front of him and swiped for the game. The crowd gasped, reverent, as the Snitch disappeared from view, clutched inescapably in Albus's wet palm, wings crushed against white fingers.

Robes whipping around him, Albus reached into his robes and pulled out his wand, fumbling as the ground rushed to meet him forty feet below. If this didn't work, his mind flashed, it was still one hell of a finish.

"ACCIO BROOM!" he bellowed, voice muffled by the storm.

Twisting wildly, he caught sight of his Lightning Bolt blasting through the misty air above like a spear from God. Ten feet from impact he made contact, grabbing the ash handle with both arms like a drowning man reaching for driftwood.

Straining with every muscle in his body he held on, righting the broom as his feet brushed soaking grass. Seconds later he had landed, tumbling to the earth, and for the first time in what seemed like ages he looked around and found himself lying in the middle of the pitch, surrounded by row upon row of stands bursting to capacity.

He raised his left fist, still grasping the Golden Snitch; and the crowd burst, the noise ringing in Albus's ears like a Veela's song, thrilling and exciting all at once. He felt his team land beside him, then the rumbling of the ground as the spectators surged onto the pitch towards him in an effort to be near him, to touch him, to exult in his supernatural play.

Scorpius watched as Albus was raised on a wave of scarlet. He walked off the pitch towards the castle, face wet with rain and tears, aching to be anywhere else.


End file.
